A cathedral, all-black and dotted with gun turrets, rose far above the derelict buildings filling the city district. Pillars of black smoke very nearly blotted out the pink-tinged sky. Overflowing sewage drains stunk. Sweat ringed the gap between my collar and my neck. Ferrocrete steps led up to a raised roadway. I brought the stock of my Gerax Jager rifle to my cheek and moved up to the mouth. The brim of my ceramite cleared the top step and I swept the Gerax's scope across the buildings. The thin crosshairs passed a window, wavered, and turned back to the darkened recess. An optic caught the light. I lowered my head an inch. A muzzle flashed.
My head thumped the chair's headrest. A brick clanged against the iron mesh bolted to the outside of the train window. Men and women in tattered rags charged along the adjacent tracks and hurled bricks and bits of wood at the train. Where am I? My head twitched. Drums beat in my ears. My olive grey groundcrew jacket stuck to the seat. Warmth welled in my armpits. A balding, robed man in the seat across the aisle balanced a book on his knee. Two ratings in Navy grey in front of him gathered up the pieces of a Regicide set on the table between them and folded their board. A stocky, broad-shouldered mother fastened her infant in a wheeled carrier. She caught my eye and twisted on her seat, placing her back to me. A map lay on an unfolded shelf bolted to the back of the seat in front. A paperclip held a smaller, yellow note in the top corner.
"Saint Barnecut's." Commander Sorge faced me across a table in the prison's empty mess hall. Clean surfaces, dry walls, and heating separated it from the messes in the prison wings. "An orphanage three kilometres outside the town of Virke." Sorge slid a palm-sized piece of yellow paper over with a finger.
"Susannah's there?" I skim-read the scrawled directions on the note.
"Condition." Sorge passed over a card held inside a laminated housing. "I hand you this pass and you follow these directions to the letter. Forty-eight hours shall give a night – one night. After that, you are to make further use of Virke's public transport system. Make your way south to Maretuka Naval Base. Hand the orders inside this envelope to the guard at the outer gate." A fat brown envelope slid across the tabletop. "Four-hundred credits for civvies, meals, and ablutions." I reached for the envelope. Sorge's fingers closed around the edge. "Do you know what probation is?"
"No."
"You will be kept under surveillance. It will not be around the clock, but you will not know where or when. Now, I wish I could pry those shackles off properly and give you a clean slate. We had a disagreement. Tempers took off after Henna-Morata. Too many differences of opinion in too tight a space. I've wrung so many arms bringing you out in to the cold, and I wish I could start afresh. The jaws of our beloved justice system remain within the wound, even after the beast is culled. I am sorry, James."
"You're sorry? Two years inside and I get a sorry? You think I want to hear any kind of apology from you… Sir?"
Sorge pressed the envelope in to my hand and clicked his tongue. Trip's paws scrabbled on the bench. His pointed ears twitched. "Good boy. Been most well-behaved, haven't you, Triptolemus?"
"Missed you, pal." I leaned over the table and scratched Trip's chin. His tongue ran over my fingers.
"You'll see him again."
"What—what 'appens at Marry—?"
"Go to Susannah. Look forward to that reunion. Maretuka comes later. All I ask is that you follow it through all the way. The choice is yours."
"I've got no choice."
"You do. And I know you'll pick the right one. You've been picking the right choice all your life, James."
"How's it that I wake up feeling rotten every day then? Most nights I'm dreaming of dead grunts. If I'm sleeping."
"Shared warmth is on your mind, as it is on the mind of all young adults. You do wish to see Susannah again, don't you?"
My hand brought the envelope in to my lap. "And I want my life back."
"Susannah and Maretuka first. That is all I can give you for now."
Saint Barnecut's, Zone 17, Three klicks east along Rennox Way, Virke. I folded the map up in to quarters and stuffed it inside a thin travel sack with the envelope. People filed along the aisle. Carriage doors hissed open. I avoided eye contact and sidled down to the end of the carriage and crossed the gap on to a platform. Feet splashed through puddles. A bare metal fence tipped with bent prongs loomed over the crowd. At the end of the platform, a revolving gate funnelled the crowd in to single file down a brick tunnel.
You are entering Zone 17. Yellow text slid across a board above the gate. Report any suspected abhumans at your nearest security booth. Failure to do so is a criminal offence. Below the board, people fed tickets inside a slot and pushed through the gate. I dug inside a breast pocket and took out my own ticket and pushed it at the slot. The ticket slid inside then popped back out. I plucked at the thin card and pushed it back in. Come on. The ticket reappeared.
"Come on. What's the holdup?"
"Hurry the fuck up." A shock baton tapped the bars from the other side.
Please, please, please. I turned the ticket over and stuffed it in. The gate clanged and I pushed through and over to the mouth of the tunnel. Civilians shuffled around me, all heading up to the platforms.
"Are you deaf? One-way system." The shock baton roved through the crowd at me. The guard on the other end flicked it at my chest. A black balaclava covered all but his eyes and a chestplate and shoulder pads bulked him up. "Got my eye on you." A handheld vox chirped in a pouch on his shoulder. "459-Romeo, send your traffic…" The guard pinched his vox and strode away. Civilians scattered before him.
Low voices echoed inside the tunnel departing the platform. Loose stones clattered. Water seeped through my unbloused trousers. I hunched my shoulders at a rumble overhead and tightened my grip on my sack.
"Do you mind?" A hand patted my shoulder. "I say, would you mind moving? I have an appointment…"
"Uhh…" I twisted. Civilians had piled up in a queue behind me. Oh, God… I hurried down to the tunnel mouth and took stairs up to a concourse. Civilians, red-robed AdMech, Guard, and naval personnel bustled all around me. Announcements played over loudspeakers. Multi-limbed servitors wedged inside enclosed stalls handed newspapers out. I plunged through the horde. A shoulder hit mine. A woman squarked.
Endemic spreads throughout Cadian refugee camps. Planetary Government denies internee abuse. Chaos remnant driven out of system. I picked a local herald up from a stack, licked my finger, and opened the front page. Five-thousand perish from Typhus outbreak. No end in sight. I turned away from the stall.
"Eleven ninety-seven, sir."
"Uh?"
"Eleven ninety-seven Rako for the herald, sir," the servitor warbled.
Rako? I slipped my sack off a shoulder and rummaged inside the envelope. What's Rako? I brought out a handful of transparent, multi-coloured, flat sticks no longer than my forefinger and passed a few over.
"Eight eleven for the herald, sir."
Which one is which? I separated three purple sticks from the credits and handed them over to the servitor.
"Thank you, sir. Please take your change." A tray rattled out by my knee. Green and yellow sticks filled it. I scooped the Rako out of the tray, stuffed some inside my trouser pockets and poured the rest inside the envelope. "How much for the—?"
"Move along, please."
"Er…" People waited in a queue behind me. I tightened the drawstring neck on my sack and slunk away in to the crowd. More of the armoured guards corralled people in to a bottleneck at the station's exit. Each person handed over a pass for examination and a flicked baton urged them outside in to the grey morning. Is this it? I ran my thumb along the 48.
"Travel pass." A rectangular slot slid open in front of a helmeted guard. I fed my pass through the slot. A red laser passed over it and a beep followed. "Next follow on."
Fingers curled around cage bars outside the station entrance. Men in black body armour stood guard around the cages. A cyber-hound hauled on a leash, it's jaws gnashing. "Move along!" The handler dragged the slobbering beast back. "Move along!"
Who are they? Men, women, and children of all ages filled the cages. On a circular traffic island, people wearing nothing but raincapes kneeled holding painted signs. Say no to xenos. The Emperor visits the wrath of the holy upon the unfaithful. Who is this Usurper?
"You!" A tattooed woman with many piercings in her face charged over and forced a pamphlet in to my hand. "Would you forsake the Emperor's guidance for a usurper?"
I lifted my hand and shook it, brushing the pamphlet aside. "N-no."
"Would you serve under a xenos warlord?"
"N-no, what—?" I squinted at the hand-written pamphlet. Who's the Lord Commander?
A rifle cracked. Rough asphalt hit my chin. Contact. The pamphlet landed in front of me. The woman's hands came up to her chest and she backed away. People stared at me. "You're scaring my son." A mother steered her son away. The little boy watched me from behind his thumb.
Where's the contact? I flinched at another pop. A sagging, flatbed lorry chugged past. Black smoke poured from its exhaust. Shit. Eyes followed me along the street. Civilians steered around me. I ducked in to an alley and squatted behind a bin. God, no. God-Emperor, no. I wrenched off my sack and covered my ears and closed my eyes. In. One, two, three. Hold. And out.
A bullet had punched through the O in the sign for Rennox Way. My fingertip drew a circle around the dull metal and the sharp edges curling inwards. Three-three-eight fired from the other side. Mud squelched beneath my soles. A straight, unmetalled roadway lead out of Virke. Yellow grass poked through barren fields on either side of the road. Crumpled packets and cans, wrappers, and crushed storage boxes filled ditches. At the lowest point, brown water pooled. A six-wheeled lorry rushed past my shoulder. Hands poked out of cages. A second, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth howled by, all with cages aboard. What is going on?
A giant figure in gold spread its arms over smiling, laughing children with violet eyes. Light shone from the halo above its head. The Emperor? Saint Barnecut? I lifted a brass knocker and tapped it on a door set in the centre of the painted scene. Tiled roofs rose above the twenty-foot wall. An iron Gnese spun on a spire.
"Hello?" I banged the knocker. "Hellooo…?"
A slat opened. A wonky eye narrowed.
"Susannah? Susannah Senf?" The slat slid shut. "No-no. Oi, hold on!" I slammed my palm on the door. "Listen, I'm a war-buddy of hers. Cadia—we was at Cadia together." The knocker rapped on metal.
Iron grated. The eye returned. "Be off, vagrant. We have nothing to offer you."
"No, I was 144 Batt, Eight Brigade, attached to Fifty-five Cadian Division. She was 423 Service Company attached to Second Guards Brigade, Imperial Logistics Corps."
The slat closed. Bolts clanged and hinges groaned. A prosthetic hand hooked around the edge of the door and drew it inwards. "You alone?" Long hair fell down one side of a face covered in scar tissue. A bloodshot, dilated eye roved around. The other remained still. "Okay, come in."
"Saint Barnecut's?" The veteran closed the door behind me and sent the bolts home.
"Saint Bart's, we call it. Nobody knows who Saint Barnecut was." The veteran limped up a gravel path after me. "If he existed…"
"You was in boots?"
"Er… Te'escu Eleven. 44 Battalion. Just the one tour. Now, I'm on Veterans' Pay. You were Cadia, you said?"
"Mm. Cadia, Nemesis Tessera, Grendel, err…"
"God-Emperor!" The veteran lifted his arm. "This is me after one tour. Were you in a teeth mob?"
"Yeah, I was teeth."
"Got a lucky star shining down on you, friend. All intact after three tours…" The veteran's eyes moved down to my groin.
"The colonel's got both his batmen bunked up 'ere."
"Heh-heh, colonel!" The veteran sniffed and wiped his nose. "I've missed that humour."
Iron bars were bolted to the lower windows of three square buildings painted white and facing each other across a wide courtyard. Weeds grew in a dry fountain in the centre. Empty baskets hung from chains. Didn't I just leave prison?
"The—the—the bars. You're looking at the bars." The veteran spun in a circle. "They—they didn't want the kids opening the windows—heh. Y'know, too far."
"Where are they?"
"Prayers. They'll be in the chapel. Do you want to—to come inside? Sign you in maybe?"
Double doors swung inwards. Black and white tiles shone. A grey-haired lady looked up from behind a glass screen. A locked door and mesh panels separated her from us. "Er, M—madam? Short-term visitor to see a m—member of staff."
What's with the barricades? I followed thick bolts poking out of the office's walls.
"Name, please." The lady adjusted her thick spectacles. "That will be all, Rosslyn. See to the latrines."
"Yes, madam. Thank you, madam." The veteran's soles squeaked away across the polished floor.
Poor fellow.
"Name."
"Larn, 34691174."
"Full name."
Damn it, that's my prison number. "Err—Larn, Arvin James."
"You are here to see a member of our staff?"
"Yeah—yes, ma'am."
"Social or…?"
"Social, social." My head bobbed. "Susannah."
"Identification please."
"Um, yeah." I fed my pass through a thin slot in the glass.
"Your identification. I do not know who you are, citizen."
"Listen, I'm a friend of Susannah's. Susannah Senf? She works here. I know she works here."
"I can neither confirm nor deny that, citizen. Without identification, you are trespassing."
"Trespassing?" I leaned closer to the window. "Then how's it Rosslyn let me in? You're 'aving him swab out latrines. He gave his arm for lifers like you hiding away in your—!" I banged my hand on the glass. The lady jumped and her chair rocked backwards. Her specs slipped down her nose. I whirled around and shunted the doors open. "SUSANNAH! SUSA—" The doors in the building on the far side of the fountain opened. Children spilled outside. Two adults moved among them. One, middle-aged and balding, swatted at a child with a stick.
"Settle down. Settle down, I say!" The balding man flicked his stick at the back of a child's knee. "No talking. Form ranks! Form ranks!" The other adult, broad-shouldered and slightly cross-eyed, wafted his arms at the children. All wore baggy, grey suits without adornment and had their hair shaved to the skin. "Form ranks." The older man slapped a child then glared at me. "Who in the name of the God-Emperor are you?" A faded tattoo on his neck stretched.
I ripped the stick out of his hand and broke it over my knee. The splintered halves hit the ground and rolled away. "See how you like it."
"See how I like what, boy? I don't hear so good anymore." The tattooed man stuck two fingers up to his ear and leered at me. I snapped my head forwards and smacked the man's twisted nose. His knees buckled and he flopped on to his back.
"Please! Please, no!" The younger, cross-eyed man hurried over. "Not in front of the—" I opened my hand and swung it backwards in to his cheek. His neck cracked and he tottered backwards, a hand clapped over his cheek.
"They'd make a good wife out of you in Espi." I dug my fingers in to the tattooed man's collar, dragged his head off the ground, and jabbed my closed fist at his face. His head rocked backwards. Blood poured from his nostrils. Flecks leaped from inside his mouth. The skin on my knuckles split. A tooth splintered.
"Stop—STOP!" A woman with dirty blonde hair and red blotches on her cheek pushed through the children. "…James?"
My arm froze. My fingers slackened around the tattooed man's collar and he fell backwards coughing up blood. Many violet eyes fixed on the blood shining on the man's face and sticking to my fist.
"Get up." Susannah flew at the tattooed man and hauled him up by his shoulders. "Wemyss, get up. Get up!" Susannah steered the tottering Wemyss over to the younger man. "Itay, Itay, take Wemyss to the showers and clean him. Clean the blood off." Susannah pattered Itay's shoulder. "Take Wemyss to the showers and clean the blood off. You can do it, Itay." Itay's chin wobbled. With trembling hands, he took Wemyss and helped him away. "Children, children!" Susannah raised her hands and clapped. "Find your bunkroom head, line up behind them, and make your way to your dormitory."
"Susannah." I flapped my hand and clasped the broken skin.
"Oshi, Oshi, line up behind—behind Tomer." Susannah picked a five-year-old up by the shoulders and carried him through the wandering children. Lines formed with older children leading the younger ones. Each file then trooped inside. Susannah left with them.
"Susannah." The doors slammed shut. I flexed my fingers and sucked on the broken skin. "Aahh." My forehead throbbed.
I lounged on a bench in the shade of an empty hanging basket with my eyes on the courtyard. The curtains remained drawn inside every window. Clouds had rolled in. Dried blood ringed the cuts on my knuckles. "Not kids. Never kids."
Susannah ducked around the hanging basket and tossed a soaked cloth over. "Still far, far gentler an upbringing than what they would have experienced in a Cadian hab."
I wrapped the cloth around my hand and pressed. "Bringing 'em up with the stick don't make 'em strong."
"Yes, it does. You do not know a Cadian upbringing, off-worlder. We aren't bred for softness, for sentimentality."
"Then what are those little ones being raised for, uh? Don't tell me they're all Cadian…"
"Most." Susannah sat herself on the far end of the bench. "Four-hundred and seventy-eight bunks. Four-fifths Cadian orphans. Raised to give their lives for the God-Emperor."
"Shame on you. The lot of you."
"So, we let Typhus claim them instead?"
"Aren't there enough Cadians lying cold out there? Give the Cadian youth a future, not a grave 'fore they've hit twenty. Bloody waste…"
"That's not my decision to make. They have no choice in it."
"Yeah, they do. You're 'ere. You know. What good's a Cadian martyr if there's no Cadia left to die for?"
Susannah's head dipped. Her tightly-clasped hands touched her brow. "Cadia was my home." She turned her head away from me. Her elbows came together.
"Cadia stands." I stood over Susannah. My hand came down to her shoulder.
"Don't lay your hands on me." Susannah's head shook. "Where were you? Two years. Two. Years."
"Espi." I sat back down and drew a leg up beneath me. "Naval Glasshouse."
"Sorge?"
"Yeah." I unwound the cloth and turned the reddened side around. "Two years on the cooldown, and now the noose is back around my neck. He's there by the trapdoor."
"Why?"
"Pfft, fuck knows."
"How is he still commanding? After what he did to the crew of that ship."
"…He made it go away. I dunno. They make everything go away. Anybody not in their pocket is takin' a walk in vacuum."
"He never found me."
"How d'you think I found you?"
Susannah's shoulders sagged. "…Shit."
"He won't hurt you as long as I keep with his programme. That's a promise, Susannah. I'll peel his face back from his head if he goes after you. Won't be nunnit left of him."
Susannah dabbed a tissue at her eyes. "You frightened the children."
"I'm sorry. I weren't raised with the stick, y'know."
"You frightened me."
"I said I'm sorry. For the little ones and your bloke too. I'm—I'm 'ere for you."
"He is not my man, offworlder. I don't need you here either. Please don't waste your affection on me."
"Do you have someone? I don't want you on your own, Susannah. You deserve a happy life away from 'ere. More 'an I deserve being out 'ere anyway."
"Away from where? I'm right where I need to be. If you find yours, I hope you don't do so alone."
"Susannah?"
"Offworlder?"
"I'm—I'm clutching at straws here but—"
"You've heard all my answers."
"The one-fifth non-Cadian…"
"Yes?"
"Any little lads by the name of Titus?"
"It's not a common name."
"His father was my OC on Nemesis Tessera. I know him."
"The father?"
"The son. Titus Kaukasios. And I knew his mother before she…"
"Nobody here by that name. Please, I—I don't want to talk about Cadia."
The doorknocker clanged. I delved in to my sack and took the envelope and set it down next to Susannah. "For you and yours."
Susannah slipped her hand in. "Oh, no. No, no, no, you're not giving me all this—er, how much is in there?"
"Little bit less than four-hundred Rako."
"Sorge." Susannah squeezed the open ends shut. "Afraid you'd rat him out?"
"Listen, that's going in your pocket or the pockets of the meatheads rolling up on me. If I can't be with you, let me help you at least. The money's yours and I'm gone. Won't ever 'ave to be afraid of Sorge again."
"It's not him I'm afraid of."
Boots crunched on the pathway. "Take…" I rootled inside the envelope and removed the sealed orders. "Take the money and keep it." I dug in to my trouser pockets and poured the rest of the Rako inside the envelope. "I wish you all the best for the future, Susannah Senf."
"It won't be Senf for much longer."
"Number one." I left my sack on the bench. "Number one."
"You were there when I needed you, offworlder."
"Did something right then."
"Please don't look back."
"I won't. All the best to you." I walked out of the courtyard and down the path. Two helmeted, armoured officers moved up towards me. Both stopped and laid hands on their holstered sidearms.
"Larn, Arvin James?"
I lifted my arms above my head. "Yes."
Bars slid in to place behind me and a lock clicked. "Lasted less than a day, Larn. A new record for the Navy there—hahaha!" Whistling faded away.
I sunk on to the thin mattress and stared at my swollen knuckles. Weak light shone through the glazed window, reinforced by steel bars. Less than a day. A bulb held inside a reinforced housing flickered off. I stripped to my waist, placed my hands flat on the floor and stretched my legs out. In the dark, I counted fifty push-ups then swung myself in to a sitting position and crossed my arms over my breast.
Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. "Aagh…" I sprung up and bounced on my balls around the cell. "Come on. Come on then." Balled fists rose in front of my face and jabbed, swung, and hooked.
Springs dug into my skin. Needles tingled in my right arm, clamped between my head and the mattress. I lurched up and dug my fingers in to the mattress. "FUCK! FUUUCK!" I barrelled at the bars and shook them, screaming. I rammed my palm at a bar and slithered down to the floor and slumped there. My forehead tipped and rested against the bars.
A baton jangled along the bars. I kicked my legs out and swung them off the mattress. A bareheaded officer rattled his baton inside the bars and aimed it at me. "Up. You've a long journey down to Tuka today, boy. I want that nose making love to the wall." I got up and faced the wall. The lock disengaged and the officer stepped in to the cell. Another officer gripped a baton behind him. "Hands behind your back." Binders clicked around my wrists. The officer pulled me away from the wall and threw my jacket over my shoulder on the way out of the cell.
My bare shoulders prickled in the early morning air. Bright steel spikes topped a tall wall running around the precinct compound. Personnel transports shored up with armour-plating on their flanks and windshields stood in a row along one wall. Thick, ferrocrete bastions guarded the closed gateway. The two officers hustled me over to a smaller patrol vehicle naked of armour-plating. One opened the passenger door. "Mind your head." The other pushed my head down then tossed my orders in after me. "Yours."
Shutters came down between the passenger's and driver's compartment. Locks clicked. The binders dug in to the small of my back. I wormed my hips. At least unlock them. What am I supposed to do trapped in here?
A door slammed and the car's engine started up. The gate rolled sideways and we surged out on to a dirt road. My shoulder collided with the door's side panel. "Agh, fuck!" My heel thumped the partition.
"You do that again you're walking down to Tuka."
"Fuck off."
"Listen, I can take you back to your base or I can drop you here and the provosts can haul you back to Espiotis. That's your choice."
I shifted back in to the seat. "Oi, unlock these cuffs, would ya?"
"A stab at humour?"
"Can't piss with my hands behind my back, can I?"
"You'll piss when we tell you, boy. Quiet in the back now."
Wanker. I relaxed my shoulders and shut my eyes. God-Emperor. Not two days outside and I've fucked everything.
"Hey! Boy!" Slit eyes glared at me from a cloth mask. The officer pushed a newspaper wrapping through the open passenger door. "Eat."
"Urgh…" I contorted my body and worked my aching neck. "Mmph."
"You want or not?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I want." Grease stuck to my nose and chin. My teeth tore off a piece of grey meat. "Synth-meat, yeah?"
"What d'you expect from a roadside stop, boy?"
"Don't call me boy."
"You are a boy, are you not?" The officer leaned in holding bottled water. "Can't hide it behind that dick-tickler on your face."
Water dribbled down my chin. "What's the charges?"
"…Let the Navy handle that, yeah?"
There's no charges? I clenched and unclenched my left hand. Did they speak to Susannah? "What you hiding your own for?"
"Ahh, regs, my friend. Protect the identity."
"What's that accent?"
"Could say the same for yours, boy." The officer screwed the bottle cap back on and tossed it in the front. He lifted his mask and popped a morsel in his mouth. "Like to question, dontcha?"
"Don't call me boy."
"Well, I'm not calling you Shina from where I'm standing."
"Shina? S'a prison wife if I ever 'eard one."
"Shina. Can't have been on Haven long then."
"Nah, just the two years in the Glasshouse."
"What were you in for?"
"Sloshed an officer right up."
"Sloshed?" The officer made a jabbing motion.
"Weren't sloshed. Thumped him right out."
"You struck an officer, and you're still breathing…"
My nose wrinkled. "Nah. Not since Cadia."
"You were…? Shit, man, I'd no idea." The officer held the paper out. "What was it like?" I moved away from the open door and turned my head away from the officer. "Okaaay… Stretch the legs?" The officer took a key from a pouch on his armoured vest. "C'mere." The officer leaned in to the compartment. "Give me your wrists."
Urine poured in an unbroken stream over the barrier of the raised roadway and disappeared in to fog. Gigantic ferrocrete pillars rose in to the sky. Cables hung between them. Traffic poured down the slipway from the roadside stop and curved around the patrol car. Cloud covered the sun, nothing more than a dim orb in the grey sky. "How far down does that go then?"
"Further than your legs can stand." The officer spun the binders on a finger. "I wouldn't."
Not while I've still got a working cock anyhow. "So… How far's it to Tuka?"
"Kirat-Sor." The officer aimed his arm to my left. "North." He swung his arm to my right. "Hedech. South. You're halfway, Shina."
I zipped up and hopped down from the barrier and placed my arms behind my back. The officer spun his finger. I came around and held out my wrists. "Right, in you get." The officer steered me in to the rear compartment.
"Wake me when we're there." The door shut in my face. I grinned and stretched my legs out. "Prick."
The car shuddered. "Oi." I sat up and thumped on the partition. "Oi, Shina. What we stopped for?" I wriggled over to the window. Wind whipped the grass back. Armed men in body armour crouched around a Valkyrie sitting on the turf. More of them surrounded Shina. A man in a facemask and a beret tapped a pencil on a list he held. What the fuck is this? I lifted the door handle. Locked.
The man in the beret turned the list towards Shina and jabbed the nub of his pencil at it. Shina waved his hands and shook his head. Both his sidearm holster and baton pouch were empty. Lasguns flicked up to Shina. Muzzles flashed. Shina's body jerked and he fell sideways.
"Shit!" I crawled back from the window. Urgraf! A finger pointed at me. Lasguns whipped up. Glass shattered.
"Shina!" I shot upright. My heart walloped. "Oi, Shina!" A window rattled. The car's engine hummed. "Shina."
"Bad dream, boy?"
My hands settled on my juddering chest. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah."
"'Bout another fifty minutes. We're deep in enemy territory now, boy."
"What—what d'you mean?" I twisted in my seat and peered out of the windows at the flat scrub at the side of the road. Zeke?
"Ahh, Kisors and Hedechs just don't get on."
"You a Kisor then?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's wrong with the headaches then?" I rolled my numb ankles.
"Nothing. They like picking fights with us is all."
"Sounds just like Espi."
"Rough unit, that. Still, you weren't carted out in a wheelchair. Everything's in place. I call that a win."
Outside, the grey light deepened. Long-necked crane lamps cast weak light over the empty road. I pressed my cheek to the window and squinted at a glow over the horizon. "Tuka?"
"Yep. Almost home."
"Won't be a home I've ever seen."
"Hmm, suppose not. You'll be back with your people anyway."
"Strangers."
"You'll reintegrate. Give a few days…"
"What if I told I weren't Navy? I was Crotch-commissioned after Cadia."
"Well, I say too bad for the Crotch. They've lost a good, young soldier to the Navy."
"They're the ones fucking me from behind now. Navy does you from behind, Zeke does you from up front."
"Zeke? Never heard that before."
Bright spotlights glared across a cleared zone, eight-hundred yards long and surrounding a long wall, stretching from horizon to horizon. Minefield probably. My cheek rubbed against the glass. Muzzles hid inside narrow embrasures in towers rising from the wall. Spotlights swung across the minefield and bathed the patrol car. Eight-wheeled armoured vehicles sat on either side of a sealed gate, their batteries targeting the road. Thickly-coiled wire skirted the base of the wall.
"Okay, this is you." Shina braked and brought the car to a stop. He got out and unlocked the passenger door. "Give us your bracelets." Shina twisted the lock and returned the binders to his belt. "Right, be off with you."
"Ta. Ta, Shina." I pinched the skin on my wrist.
"Don't forget!" Shina leaned in to the passenger's compartment and brought out my sealed orders. "And don't let me see you again either, boy. Go on, shove off."
Shina slammed his car in to reverse, shot backwards, and lurched around. I held my hand over my eyes and walked up to the gate. This'll be good.
"HALT!" Grunts in Navy grey body armour and ceramite aimed lasguns at me from across staggered barricades. "DROP THE PACKAGE AND KNEEL!"
"Alright, alright." My knees touched the asphalt and I tossed the envelope in front of me. Grunts barrelled at me. One reversed his lasgun and drew back the butt. I relaxed my stomach before the butt rammed home. "Umph!" My cheek hit the road. A grunt pinned my arms behind my back and another pointed a shotgun at my head. Gloved hands ran up and down my legs, arms, and torso.
"Clean! No weapon."
"Hands?"
"No wires, no trigger."
"Check the package." Paper rustled.
"Clean. Paper contents only."
"Bring him in."
The grunts hauled me upright. "Look down!" A palm smacked my head. "LOOK DOWN!"
My heels dragged along the road. A barrier swung up and the grunts manoeuvred me inside a blockhouse and sat me down on a bench. The shotgun-armed grunt took the wall opposite me and held his weapon ready; trigger-finger twitching. "Hands behind your head. Don't look at me. Don't look at me!"
A grunt wearing stripes on his brassard waved my still-sealed orders at me. "Do these belong to you? Yes, no?"
"Yeah, they belong to me."
"Why haven't they been opened?"
"Weren't s'posed to open 'em before I got 'ere."
"Why?"
"Cause my OC said so, Bootneck! C'mon, you do the honours. In your own time now, dickhead."
"You shut the fuck up." The compensated muzzle attached to the grunt's shotgun jerked. "Coming up on us at night with that attitude. We could have burned you and that H-SEC scum." The grunt tipped his shotgun back and rested the bore against his shoulder-guard. "How much did you pay him to drive you here?"
"Pay?"
"Where the fuck you been? H-SEC takes money from anyone. They're worse than the PDF. More bent than a sickle."
"You hold him here, Tecklen. I'll be back." The higher-ranked grunt left the blockhouse with my orders.
"Must've paid him off." Tecklen placed his heel against the wall and cradled his shotgun.
"Not one credit."
"Credits? It's all Rako on Haven. You, er, you new in-theatre?"
"Glasshouse. Twenty-two months."
"Heh. Welcome back to Tuka. What did you steal?"
"I never twocked nunnit. Who the fuck made it their mission to roll in these rainbow happy chit-shits and call it currency? I'm twoddling around with these purple bricks. Not numbered or nunnit."
"Ha-ha! Well, you'll be pleased to know we only deal in Milcred on-base. We make all your chit-shit worries disappear."
"Not carrying any Rako anyway. Nope, I'm empty."
"Ah, so you did pay H-SEC off."
"Nah, I left it all with her."
"Ahahaha. Must have had some meaning then."
"She wou—she wouldn't take me back."
"Oh-ho! Every—every—single man and woman behind that wall has been in that exact same place you've just been. That is absolutely normal."
"Got no-one now, haven't I?" I sucked in my lower lip.
"Worst thing you can do right now is feel sorry for yourself. Strike that as a life lesson. You're better off for it now. Single, clear head, balls and bits intact."
"Right, where is he?" A bald-headed staff sergeant in windproof combats swooped inside.
"Right here, Staff Sergeant."
"I'm—I'm Commander Sorge's man," I said.
The staff sergeant's eyebrow – the shaved patch where his eyebrow should have been – lifted. "Never heard of him. On your feet, soldier. Button that jacket."
"Yes, Staff Sergeant."
"Now, fall in."
"Yes, Staff Sergeant." I followed in the SNCO's footsteps out of the blockhouse.
"God-Emperor have mercy on your soul. You belong to me now." Before us, the open gates of Tuka beckoned.
Zalilean Enclave, Orsolya
Pins tingled in Izuru's bare feet. A deafening silence isolated her. The roaring currents, waves breaking on a shoreline, had faded. Father. Ulthranwé. I cry for you. Answer me. Alone I drift. Please, answer me.
Two knocks sounded on the door. Izuru flinched and dove for the pair of brown leather boots sitting together on the edge of the carpet. "Um…" Izuru reached up to brush her hair behind her ear. Her fingertips grated against the dark stubble covering her head. "Come in."
"Away in the clouds?" Setsiba Galah-Shah leaned in.
"If only I could fly that high." Izuru scratched her crown and wiggled her numb feet inside her boots. "Madam Ambassador, thank you for gracing me with your presence. You are most welcome." Izuru fed her laces through the eyelets.
"Nice to know I am welcome in my own home." Setsiba whisked open the curtains.
"Oh, no—!" Izuru lunged for the curtains. "I—I prefer the shade."
"Hm. Of course." Setsiba raised her hands and stepped away from the curtains. "Apologies."
"Er, n-no, I apologise. This is your home, Madam Ambassador."
"Hah. Ha-ha!" Setsiba pressed her knuckles to her lips. "My sarcasm improves."
"Your sar—?" Izuru fumbled her knot and tore the laces apart. "So, even in a closed community the human taint creeps across the carpet… An angry, filthy, stinking rash."
"How do the humans say it…? Speak for themself?"
"For yourself." Izuru jerked her laces tight. "May I enquire as to the nature of your visit, Madam Ambassador?" Izuru straightened up and clasped her hands in the small of her back. "News of my uncle perhaps?"
"A Zalilean promise. Your ear will be the second ear to hear tidings after mine."
"You have nothing."
"I have nothing." Setsiba spread her arms and let them fall. "You know, it has been a few weeks. Would a change of quarters maybe take you above the clouds? This room was never intended to be slept in." Setsiba smiled at the crumpled bedcovers and used plates and glasses sitting on a shelf. "It is nice to see you have made it home."
"Gratitude, Madam Ambassador." Izuru's neck remained rigid.
Setsiba completed her circuit of the room. "Will you come downstairs with me? Something that might interest you." Izuru picked up a crumb-covered plate. "Err, somewhat along those lines if it is sustenance you crave."
"I struggle to gain weight, Madam Ambassador."
"Oh, Setsiba please!" Setsiba held the door open for Izuru. "Zalilean you may not be, but I will never force title on to your tongue or any tongue in my family. You are inside all day, every day, Izuru. In one of these divine moments when the sun graces Orsolya, you can journey outside with me and take the air."
"Very well." Izuru set the plate down and followed Setsiba down to the main hall.
"What a blessing it is to be able to maintain such a fine figure. I cannot fathom how your body admits intake of human nutrition. Those calories…"
"Are you asking me? It is twofold a blessing and a curse. They march hand in hand—"
"Er, subjective, shall we say?"
"I have never cared. I eat how I wish." Izuru clenched and unclenched her hand behind her back. "And I have eaten far, far worse morsels in the field."
"You trod the Path of the Warrior?"
"Outcast. I earned the revered Cameleoline twice. I was a good Ranger." Izuru's teeth locked together. "Then I wasn't."
"I am sorry."
"Your sympathies I do not need, Ambassador. My sins drove me here."
Sunlight poured through the embassy's front doors. Izuru closed an eye and twisted her neck. Straight in to the gilded cage.
"Please." Setsiba scooped a human respirator out of a criss-crossing rack and passed it to Izuru. Worn, fabric straps dangled from it and thick tape made an X-shape over the muzzle.
"…Why?"
"Bad air outside."
"Bad air?"
Setsiba adjusted the straps on her own mask and hooked them over her head. "The enemy gassed Orsolya eight months ago. Even in lessened potency, the foulness still leaves its mark."
"Gassed? How?"
"Missiles? I—I do not know. Warfare is your trade, not mine."
"Horrific…" Izuru put her hand to her chest. How long was I breathing that air?
Setsiba nudged open a gate and stepped out on to a potholed road. To the right, at the southern end, the boundary wall rose. Izuru turned in a slow circle and looked around the bulbous rooftops and bright white stone. Bits of blue and gold shone in the sun.
"You should do very well up there in the clouds." Setsiba ambled backwards. "Hmph-hmph."
Am I missing something? Where did she derive humour from?
"Your suit. Human aircrew wear them at high-altitude." Setsiba's eyes crinkled. "It was jest."
"I see."
"Sarcasm, yes. Jest… hmm, perhaps a little work necessary."
"I did wonder what they were used for." Izuru tugged on a tube on her suit's sleeve.
"They should expand and squeeze the body."
Useless to me. Izuru's fingers rode up her nape to the respirator's straps. "May I speak candidly?"
"Speak your mind."
"The nature of this exercise is…?"
"If you would like to know, it is what I call Humanisation. A constantly developing programme of orientation for the lost souls of Zalilea."
"I have a fondness for lost souls but I cannot see any proof of this Humanisation."
"Well, this enclave was not originally meant for us."
"There is Wraithbone in that wall."
"Not entirely originally meant for us. The first Zalilean ambassador – undisturbed may his slumber be – was poisoned. A most cowardly act."
"Surely with the spilling of blood, a state of war would be declared…"
"It was the ambassador's brother."
"And the motive?"
"What do males quarrel over most often?"
Izuru shook her head. "So, this orientation process…"
"Well, in the absence of Zalilean supply, we must now eat as humans do, dress as humans do, and – to your benefit – converse in the tongue of the humans."
And how many of you indulged in collective suicide when that was announced? Izuru stretched out her arm and waggled her tingling fingers. Three streets away from the embassy gates, in the north-east corner of Avramides, a warehouse stood. Outside the sliding doors, Zalileans queued in pairs. This queue ran all the way around in to the next street. All wore human clothing, a mixture of plain civilian, bright sports gear, and a smattering of military pieces. Respirators covered their jaws and noses.
"There. Humanisation for you," Setsiba said. "Humans do so love to queue, don't they?"
"Setsiba."
"Good morning, Setsiba."
"Hello, Setsiba."
Setsiba clasped hands and touched shoulders, murmuring to the Zalileans. Izuru kept her eyes lowered and away from faces. A few pairs of eyes roved across and followed her inside the warehouse. Boxed provisions were stacked fifty feet high at the back. Flour and grain sacks sat in piles. Sealed tins filled shelves; all of it human. The file came to a head in front of a foldout table. Stacked metal bowls sat next to a tall, steaming pot a Zalilean stirred. Behind a shelf, a portable cooking unit hummed. Simmering water rose inside pots.
"Oh, Setsiba, I hadn't expected the pleasure this week!" A thin-haired Zalilean wearing a stained apron over a puffy, hooded jacket hung a ladle on the rim of the pot and wiped his hands. "And…? Oh, madam, nor had I expected you."
"Kadri, ever the flatterer. May I introduce our newest cousin, Lady Izuru Numerial of…" Setsiba flashed a smile at Izuru. "The Craftworld Ulthwé."
"Ahhh, Acolytes of the Eye. A follower of the esteemed Chief Farseer Eldrad Ulthran. We Zalileans could only have dreamed of such a mighty helmsman."
Izuru's nails dug in to her palm. "A gross misnaming, sir."
"Lady or not, we Zalileans will happily break bread with you morn, noon, and eve." Kadri's cheeks bulged behind a respirator painted dark blue. "Care for a sip?" Kadri retrieved the ladle and lifted it. Pale yellow liquid dripped from the ladle.
"Ahuh, vegetable soup this week?" Setsiba leaned over the table and took a sip from the ladle. "Mmm, I taste celery."
I hope that won't be used to serve the others.
"The head of the family always takes the first." Setsiba dipped the ladle back in to the pot and hung it on the rim. "Food or drink passes their lips before any other."
Easy to see how the first ambassador met his end then. "Yours – er, Zalilean society was a matriarchal affair?"
"Oh, no." Setsiba bent her knees and dragged trays of bottled water held together by transparent film out from beneath the table. "Patriarchal. We were really quite conservative in our values." Setsiba set the trays on the table, rattling the frame. "Of course, now we are all part of the same family."
"I will happily call you cousin." Kadri loped over to the cooking unit. A clawed foot clacked on the ground.
"And each and every one of us must take equal share of the slack." Setsiba worked a knife through the packaging. "Come. Help me distribute these rations. I will let you know the type and quantity to give."
Izuru took her place beside Setsiba and, under her instruction, passed over bags containing tinned synth-meat, fruit, vegetables, sachets of butter, packets of saxin, and caramelised sweets while Setsiba spooned soup in to the bowls and handed them out to the queuing Zalileans.
"Good morning Setsiba." A male Zalilean in an olive grey jacket came forwards with a young blonde girl in a pink, hooded parka.
"Golam! Lovely to see you. Hello, Renisia. How are you?" Setsiba laid two bowls of soup on the table.
"Hello Setsiba. I am very gr—very gratefully for the soups." Renisia's little fingers touched the rim of the bowl. "Ooh!" She jerked her hand back.
"Ahaha. I am very impressed by your Gothic."
Tins clinked inside a paper bag. Izuru glanced at the child. Hair of yellow, eyes of grey. Not who I seek. Izuru's eyes turned to Golam's military jacket. A faded nametag – black letter on an olive grey background – peeled away from the breast. Loose threads hung from the curling fabric, leaving only the first three letters visible.
Golam smiled at Izuru. "Beg pardon, stranger. I do not believe we have—" Izuru lunged across the table and wrenched Golam forward by the lapels. Golam's knees hit the table's edge and rocked it. Soup flew from the bowls and splattered the tabletop.
"Izuru!" The ladle clattered inside the pot. Setsiba rushed around the table.
"Gods, woman, that is my daughter!" Golam craned his neck away from Izuru. "You are frightening her!" Renisia hid her face behind Golam's leg and clung to it.
"Izuru, Izuru…" Setsiba's hand slipped around Izuru's shoulder and she laid her other hand on Izuru's arm. "Steady. That's it. Let it go. Let it go…"
Izuru's grip loosened. Air rasped from her respirator. Her thumb smoothed out the nametag. Laruste. Oh, Gods. Izuru lurched away from Golam. Golam scooped his half-filled bag up and backed away from Izuru. One arm balanced his rations and the other kept Renisia behind him. "In front of my daughter. You insult me in front of my daughter! ESHAIRR!"
Zalileans parted before Golam and Renisia. Heads turned to Izuru. Setsiba drew Izuru's head in to her shoulder and rubbed her back. "It is alright, my brothers and sisters. Just a funny turn." In Izuru's ear, Setsiba whispered, "what were you thinking?"
"I thought… I—I thought it was…" Izuru shook her shoulders and swiped Setsiba's hands away.
"Could you see if Kadri requires any assistance?" Setsiba ripped the seal on a box of paper towels and wiped away the spilled soup. "Olusie, I do apologise. Please come forward."
"Who is that foreigner? Is she well?"
Kadri's back faced Izuru. His arm worked in a slow circle. Lumpy, white liquid bobbed inside his pan. "Would you mind stirring this, please? Just until the lumps are gone." Kadri moved over to a second pot with water simmering inside. Izuru took the handle of the wooden spoon and eased it side to side. Her eyes stared through the pale slop. "I know those eyes." Kadri lifted a baggy trouserleg. A metal hinge gleamed on his ankle.
"Then you will know that to enquire is to transgress." Izuru raised her right hand and curled her three remaining appendages. "The spilling of blood in service to the Cause is no guarantee of kinship."
"You have another hand ready. Much the same as I have another leg ready."
"You know that is not the same. One cannot suddenly alternate between dominant hands. When you are no longer able to pull a trigger, you are a hazard to those around you; a deadweight."
"Can you…?" Kadri put two fingers to his ear. "Can you hear that?"
"Coming up to the boil?"
"No, no gunfire, no screams, nothing."
"…Er, what?"
"Why are you still fighting?"
Still fighting? Izuru's lips parted. She sucked air through her filters and swallowed. Bubbles popped on the surface. A sunken-eyed, short-haired thing with dark grey circling her eyes found her in a steel pot on a shelf. Izuru placed her hand over the reflection and shunted the pot sideways.
"This should be just about ready…" Kadri reached up to a shallow pan hanging by a hook. "Could you turn the dial on the far left to eight, please? The oil is over on your side."
Izuru turned the dial clockwise. Click-click-click-click. A loud clang sent her to the ground and scurrying in to a corner. "Oh, Gods, I am sorry!" Kadri kneeled and picked up the fallen pan. "I am sorry. My…" Kadri flapped his hand. "Nerve ends…"
Wedged between the cooking unit and a shelf, Izuru gripped a pipe and pressed her nose against the flaking paint. Her respirator hung from her neck. Shivers wracked her body.
"Kadri, see the rations are distributed." Setsiba glided over and lowered the temperature on the bubbling pans.
"Yes, Setsiba." Kadri moved away.
Setsiba placed her back to a shelf and sat cross-legged next to Izuru. "No right have I to pursue." Setsiba's fingernail drew a circle on her knee. "No right have I to re-open old wounds but your physical and mental health is my gravest concern, cousin. We are not warriors – most of us anyway – but we know how it feels to lose, to be helpless, and to feel the terror of isolation and open wounds." Setsiba slid up her sleeve and twisted her left arm. A deep scar ran from her wrist up to the inside of her elbow. "We have lost family and body to the enemy. That is everyone standing in that line over there; not only Kadri, you and I." Setsiba tilted her head back against the shelf. "A firm heart stands resolute in the face of fear. Iron will and grit stand you up time and time again, and you are stronger for it, Izuru. What I want you to imagine is a box you are carrying, and the weight is steadily filling with all the hardships, the toil, and the nightmares hounding you at night without relief. Others walk with you, bearing much the same burden. Some less than others but willing to listen, willing to understand. They open their boxes and they let their guilt, their misery out. They admit others in to their lives by sharing their burdens. Strength lies in a firm heart but compassion, compassion shows true quality. I admitted you, Izuru, in to our home, in to our family."
"Setsiba?" Kadri dumped tins on the table next to the soup pot. One rolled on its side and fell over the edge. "Setsiba, could you…?"
"No, no, have Elicia help."
"Setsiba!"
"Attend to our family, Kadri!" Setsiba hooked her arm around a shelf and twisted a water bottle free from a stack. She broke the seal on the cap and placed it by Izuru's foot. "First rule of the Zalilean Consulate. It is bottled water or nothing. Oh, I miss my spiced Calin. Hmph, too many of them left behind in my rack. What a day that will be when we have the facilities and ingredients to brew it again. Know you of the pleasures of Calin?" Setsiba's fingers drummed on her knees.
Zalileans came forwards, picked up their weekly rations, and left the warehouse. The queue shortened. Clouds stole in and covered the sun. Kadri placed a lid on the empty soup pot and carried it over to the cooking units. "Too stern a quantity again. I do apologise, Setsiba." Kadri set the pot down amongst the other dirty pans. Izuru's shoulders twitched at the thud.
"It is not me you need apologise to." Setsiba stretched out her legs and rolled her ankles. "Ahh…"
"I am sorry for the accident earlier, madam." Kadri split a packet containing two sponges and broke them in half. "Are we to start the dishes before the noonday meal, Setsiba?"
"No, no I require strength, Kadri." Setsiba massaged the muscles in her lower back. "Would you bear our cousin to the embassy? Wait on her until I arrive." Three fingers closed around Setsiba's wrist. Izuru hauled herself up and out of the corner. Kadri snatched a knife off a cutting board nearby and dumped it on a shelf out of Izuru's reach.
"Do you love your uncle?" Setsiba touched Izuru's arm. Izuru flicked her arm up and broke away from Setsiba. Through the stacked shelves Izuru wandered.
"She is dangerous, Setsiba." Head down, Izuru froze by the open doors.
"Right here, now, she needs space."
"In front of Golam's child! What drove her to such aggression?"
"Nothing concerning you or anyone else, Kadri. Space and time. Let her defuse. You of all should know a wounded soul is not to be derided and mocked."
"Wounded soul? Dark shadows stalk her footsteps. Her soul felt cold, dead."
Who am I? Izuru caressed her thumb around her stumps. Slate clouds dimmed the sunlight to nothing. A raindrop kissed the tip of her nose. More pattered at her hand. Cold. Dead.
INI Headquarters, Elek District
A bent cigarette fell from the peak of the tiny mountain in Richard Sorge's ashtray. Sorge coughed up smoke and downed the remains of his drink. Signed R. A. C. Sorge, Commander, ImperiaI Naval Intelligence. Sorge tapped out his signature and stabbed Return. What time is it? Sorge whisked his cuff back. Time for a wet one at least.
A knock came from the other side of Sorge's office door. "Is that you, Innes?" Sorge approached a newspaper being held against the glazing. A finger tapped the glass and pointed at the newspaper. "Care for a wet?" Sorge opened the door a crack.
"Richard, I think you should see this." Innes Barakat peeled the newspaper away from the glass and handed it over. "Do you mind if I shut the door?"
"Innes, I've been in my chair all afternoon. Surely this can wait." Sorge folded the newspaper and tossed it on his desk. "Anyway, we're due a wet…"
"Richard, I really think you should read it. Just the headline. You'll see it on the front page." Barakat twisted a button on his cuff.
"Bit edgy there, Innes? Who took the cream out of your bun?" Sorge flipped the newspaper over. Grey Lady Strikes Again. "Ah…"
"I'm sorry, Richard. It's—it's a month old. I found it buried beneath more recent issues. That is the only issue we have in the building."
"Chiechen?" Sorge frowned at the publishing name. "What the hell is Chiechen?"
"I haven't the first."
"Well, how the hell did they get away with printing this?"
"Maybe just a side-street, small-time outfit? I—I haven't the first idea, Richard. Sorry."
Sorge's eyes roved across the small print. He sneered and folded the newspaper shut and dropped it on his desk. "We're due a wet, Innes." Sorge lifted his greatcoat off a peg on the wall and clamped his cap under his arm.
"What about the…?"
"Drink first. I need to think about this."
Two covered cups perched amongst the mess on Sorge's desk. The Chiechen print lay open in front of Sorge. Smoke poured from his nostrils. Barakat sat opposite him staring at his empty cup. Sorge cranked his chair forwards and touched his intercom. "Lidia, is Lieutenant Vantorout still in the building?"
"Vantorout?" Barakat stirred.
"Sir, his cogitator is still powered."
"Good. One other thing from me… I need you to look up a publishing house, name of Chiechen; C-H-I-E, C-H-E-N. Fast-track the details to my dataslate and I shall see you in the morning."
"Very good, sir. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Lidia."
"So, it is to do with our mystery xenos." Barakat itched the grey stubble on his chin.
Sorge pressed his thumb to a touchpad and opened a drawer in his desk. From it he took a dataslate and his own Kondrat laspistol. "I know exactly who she is."
Light shone from Room 15. Sorge knocked twice and pushed inside. "Good evening, Mister Vantorout."
"Oh, good evening, sir." Ben's fingers waggled on his cogitator's keyboard. "Just—just finishing something off. I'll—I'll be out of the office in fifteen minutes."
"No, that's alright." Sorge took the only other chair in the office. Barakat closed the door behind him. "My car seems to have broken down. You wouldn't mind awfully sharing your seats, would you?"
"Yessir—I—I mean no, sir. I'm sorry. I've almost finished this."
"How is your project proceeding? I should make more time for you grunts on Third. I feel far too detached from those of you doing the real work down here."
"Quite on track, sir. I am liaising with our people off-world bi-weekly. Our most up to date charter of the Ishmel system Warp lanes will roll out on schedule, sir."
"Your wife. She approves your overtime, does she not?" Sorge drew a pen from a pot on Ben's desk and twiddled it. "She is aware of your dedication?"
"Sir." Dry, flaking skin ran around the tips of Ben's thumbs. Little red scratch marks coated his right cheek. "Um, I'll finish this in the morning."
"By all means finish of your own accord." Sorge smiled and took out his dataslate. "There's no secret audit monster creeping around Third. And if it was, it'd have more than three rings on its sleeves." Sorge and Barakat shared a smirk.
"Yes, sir."
Ten minutes later, Ben powered down his cogitator and reached for his cap and bag. "All done, sir."
"First class." Sorge fitted his own cap and stood. Barakat held open the door for him. "Thank you, Innes."
Crammed in the back seat of Ben's Siluvi S11, Sorge panned his view of the route Lidia had plotted on his dataslate. Green light glared at him.
"I never asked you about young James, Richard. How were his two years in the Glasshouse? Happy to see you?" Innes, occupying the front passenger seat, reached up to the driver's mirror.
"Hmph. Is this the same James, Innes? Turn right here, Ben."
"You still have the dog, don't you?"
"That thing? It was about the only reason James would speak to me—er, keep in the left-hand lane, Ben. Anyway, James isn't my nephew, Innes."
"Glad of that. He wasn't a nice man, was he?"
"You may have just about scratched the surface of my nephew's proclivities there…" Sorge wiped a mark on his screen. "James is exactly where I need him to be right now. Let's leave it at that."
"Who's James, sir?"
"This next turn-off, Ben. Take the first left at the end of the slipway. Straight on after that."
Away from the busy Ariko Circuit, Ben drove the Siluvi through the narrowing streets of North Elek. The towering spires of Upper Gorev hid the weak, dusk light. "No streetlights." Ben slowed and changed down a gear. "I can't see any street signs, sir."
"Keep going. Not too far now."
"Hope I'm not on the way to a roadside execution, sir."
"You're entitled to a firing squad like everyone else, Ben. The Navy keeps its personnel comfortable all the way in to the ground."
Barakat's eyebrows jumped. Sorge caught his eye in the mirror and snorted. Loose stones crunched beneath the Siluvi's tyres. A pothole rocked the suspension. "Stop here, Ben."
"Keep her running, sir?" Sorge stepped out in to the road then opened the driver's door. "Yes, sir." Ben turned off and followed sorge around the bonnet.
"Looks like a converted tavern." Barakat turned up his collar. "Is that newspaper on the windows?"
"Would you want rival outlets snooping on your stories?" Sorge marched up three stone steps leading up to a covered porch and stabbed a buzzer.
"Might be closed for the night, sir." Ben cast glances up and down the empty street.
"Not for another…" Sorge pressed the shoulder buttons on his chrono, illuminating the digits. "Ten minutes. We made good time from the office."
"Hello?" A voice crackled.
"Good evening to you. My name is Curzon. I am a vice admiral in the Imperial Navy. I am looking for an independent outlet to publish a story."
"Richard!"
"Ssh! Wait for it…"
"God-Emperor…" Ben scraped his heels on the steps. "I think I'd better wait in the car."
"Stand fast, Lieutenant."
Locks clicked. A bolted grated. "Hello?" An eye appeared at a crack.
"Good evening. Vice Admiral Curzon, Imperial Navy. I would like to speak to your editor-in-chief."
"We are closed for the night. Could you come back tomorrow morning maybe, Admiral?"
"Well, if my chrono reads correctly, you are open for another nine minutes. Commander, log the time of obstruction."
"Yes, sir." Barakat dug inside his greatcoat and produced a notepad. "Name, citizen?"
"No, no, please!" A chain jangled and a catch swung free. "I'm sorry, Admiral sir." An olive-skinned, dark-haired man in a ratty, grey pullover hauled the door back. "Please come in."
"Name?" Sorge pulled off his cap with a flourish and stuck it under his arm.
"Err…"
"Name, citizen." Barakat pushed the nub of a pen in and tapped the nub on his notepad.
"Pethick, sir."
"You work for Chiechen?"
"Yes, sir. Apprentice Administrator."
"And can you tell me what I'm smelling?" Brown wallpaper peeled away from the walls of a narrow passage leading along to a wooden staircase.
"Sorry, sir, it's the ink."
"Show the Admiral in, citizen." Barakat's pen scratched. "Shut the door behind us, Lieutenant."
"Sir." Ben closed the door but left the bolts and latch free.
"Er, please come this way, sirs." Wood creaked underneath the officers' feet. "Mister Grix is still in his office. I'll let him know you're waiting."
"Who is Mister Grix?" Sorge hooked his hand around a banister and climbed in a tight circle up the spiralling stairs, Barakat and Ben in tow.
"Afton Grix is our editor-in-chief, sir." Floorboards groaned underneath a moth-eaten carpet. Bare bulbs hung from the wood-chipped ceiling.
"That wouldn't be Afton Grix, Cyber Thief, would it? Straight from one of those novels you're always reading over lunch." Barakat grinned at Ben.
"Sir." Ben's cheeks darkened.
"One way to rattle your juniors, Pettick." Sorge smiled at a female employee wedged in one of many cubicles on the floor. A cogitator took up most of her desk and papers spilled from trays. A typed-up sheet whirred from a printer. Smoke coiled above partitions. Ben coughed and covered his nose.
"Can't be good for the lungs, this establishment eh, Lieutenant?"
"No, sir." Ben dabbed a tissue at his eyes.
"Just upstairs, sir."
"Awfully crowded in here." Sorge's eyes fixed on the white soles of Pethick's shoes.
"Yes, sir. Everything goes on in-house. Just a few couriers to distribute the final prints to the shops."
"So, what do you report on that the Heralds and the Victrix doesn't?"
"Mainly on incidents happening here or in Lutu. You will honestly struggle to read about anything concerning the common people in any district in Orsolya. The rich, the prominent, anybody in a military, government, or a judicial position. If you don't meet that criteria, you won't be mentioned."
"Interesting. Say a serial murderer was at large in Lutu. Would we read about it in the Victrix?"
"Only if one of the victims was upper-class, a politician, military, or law enforcement. If you're not one of them, you're little people. We keep their stories alive." Pethick rapped on a wooden door on the upper floor. A sloped roof forced Sorge and Barakat to nearly stoop.
"What is it, Pethick? Go home, ya slovenly bastard. Get drunk. Go fill a whore's mouth or whatever you do outside."
"Excuse me, sir." Pethick entered the office and shut the door.
"Wonderful boss," Ben muttered.
"Ben. Let me do the talking, please." Sorge undid the buttons on his greatcoat and took it off. "Innes, hold these please."
"That's a lieutenant's job, Admiral."
"Innes, I once played a major general. They quite literally have legions of lackeys to carry their affects."
"Well, I know someone who'd be very happy to oblige…" Barakat passed Sorge's cap and greatcoat back to Ben.
"Mister Grix will see you now, sirs." Pethick stepped outside and held the door open.
"Wait here, Lieutenant." Sorge and Barakat entered the office of an obese, hooked nosed man with four fine strands of hair smoothed across his crown. A square, blue bottle sat near the edge of a desk and a long cigar smoked gently in a buff-coloured dish.
"My-my, a pink-mooned pleasure!" Grix rolled to his feet and thrust an arm across his desk. "A vice admiral in my pokey little printing press."
"Pink-mooned?" Sorge clasped Grix's sweating hand and shook.
"Rare. Not a native are you, Admiral?"
"I've still much to learn about you Havenites." Sorge worked his buttocks in to a leather-cushioned chair and crossed his legs. "My name is Curzon, if your man didn't already state."
"Ahh, Afton Grix." A flabby hand laid itself on Grix's breast. "Always a pleasure to meet our men and women in grey. Might I offer you a…?" Grix's arm swung at the half-empty bottle.
"Commander?"
"Sir." Barakat brought out the folded newspaper and flicked it open with a whap.
Little bit of panache. Very good, Innes. Sorge's eyes followed the paper on to the desk.
"Oh, it's one of ours." Grix screwed an ocular in to his eye and brought the paper up to his nose. "Let's have a look at…" The ocular clattered on to the desk. Grix dropped the paper and swung backwards in his seat. "God-Emperor." Grix pinched the bridge of his nose. "God-Emperor."
"I would be most interested in knowing the origins of that story. Who brought it to you, Mister Grix?"
Grix's bowels gurgled. "A—Admiral, I can assure you the employee responsible for writing that story has since been dismissed and blacklisted. He will never work in journalism again."
"What of your censorship? How did this make its way out to the street?"
Grix clawed at his open collar. "The—the person responsible pushed it through without official moderation. Sir, if you would like an official apology issued, I can have it—"
"Where does he live?"
"Er, sir?"
"Where does he live?"
"I cannot provide employee information, even to an admiral. Ex-employee PI too. I am sorry, Admiral, sir."
"Commander?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Take our junior colleague and wait for me in the car."
"Yes, sir. Your affects?"
"Take them. I shan't be long."
"Very good, sir." Barakat nodded at Grix and let himself out. The latch clicked. Leather creaked beneath Sorge.
"Pour it."
"S—sir?" Grix's head twitched.
"Pour it."
Grix swallowed, dug inside a drawer, and set two short glasses on the desk. Sorge unbuttoned his cuffs. Clear liquid tricked from the fat bottle's neck. Five minutes later, Sorge stood on the porch outside Chiechen. Cool air tickle his neck. Sorge lifted his leg, looked down at his heel, and wiped it on the coarse doormat. He lifted his other leg and wiped his heel. A tiny glass fragment fell from his sleeve.
Warm air hissed from the Siluvi's air vents. Ben sat with folded arms in the driver's seat. Opposite him, Barakat plucked hairs from the crown of his cap. "Success, Richard?"
"A hab-block called Rexus Mondict. Two-hundred Sector of Lower Gorev."
"Alright, start her up, Ben. Did you get a name?"
"I have a name." Sorge gathered his folded greatcoat up in his lap. From his pocket, Sorge took a handkerchief and wrapped it around his right hand and tied a tight knot. "Let's go, Ben."
Traffic picked up around the Siluvi. Green light from the dataslate stung Sorge's eyes. He rubbed a finger and thumb in them and widened his view of the plotted route. "Keep us on a westerly heading, Ben. There's a good chap."
"How did he take it, sir?"
"Take what?"
"The bunch of fives, sir."
"You keep your eyes on the road, Lieutenant, and a button on that lip," Barakat said. "There was nothing of that manner carried out on our watch. We're all officers and gentlemen."
Ben's eyes found Sorge's in his mirror. You do your job, Lieutenant. No need to worry about anything else.
Bright, neon letters spelt Rexus Mondict two-thirds of the way up the smooth outer wall of the hab-block poking out of rickety, multicoloured hovels built around it. Washing hung over balconies and dangled from lines strung between yawning gaps.
"Looks like Lutu."
"Plague spreads if you let it. Looks like the rats are in Lower Gorev now." Sorge opened his window and flicked his cigarette out.
"By the front entrance, sir?"
"Take us around the back please, Ben."
"Come on, come on!" Ben honked his horn. Homeless scattered from the street and fled in to alleys heaving with burst binbags. One, barefoot and in a painted mask, swung a wooden stick at the Siluvi's windshield. A stone cracked against the glass. Iron clanged.
"Richard." Barakat drew his Kondrat and tapped the body against his window. The aggressors fell away from the Siluvi and ran off.
"Steady, Innes. Let's keep the firearms in the holsters."
"And one hand on it at all times. I don't remember such a ferocious welcome the last time we were here. D'you think this Grey Lady had something to do with it?"
"Who's the Grey Lady?"
"Never you mind, Ben." Sorge scowled. Thank you, Innes.
"Sir, I'm involved in this because you wanted me to be involved. What would Admiral Curzon think of your earlier conduct?"
"Stop—stop here, Ben. Turn off your engine and wait for our return."
Ben brought the Siluvi to a stop in the shadow of three giant water tanks with pipes running inside the rear of the hab. Water dripped from a chainlink fence surrounding them. "Keep an eye out, Ben." Sorge put on his greatcoat and left the Siluvi with Barakat. "Be back shortly."
"Are we onboarding Vantorout then?" Barakat followed Sorge along an alley free of vagrants. Vermin skittered between bulging rubbish bins. "He's got his head screwed on at least."
"He's useless, Innes. His combat experience is nil and I can call on any other employee to do his job for him. His collision with our serial killer was plain, dumb chance."
"Cut him some slack, Richard. He does have trouble at home, you know."
"I couldn't care less about his domestics. At least my other half doesn't beat the hell out of me every day."
Vagrants squatted outside the main entrance of Rexus Mondict. Toes poked out of shoes and blankets swathed shoulders. "We're not taking the lift?"
"First floor dwelling." Sorge made for the stairs leading out of the entrance hall. More homeless slept inside hovels and crowded the stairs.
"What else did our rotund friend exhume?"
"He'd have heaved up his guts if I'd pressed. I'm in a good mood today, Innes. He was lucky." Grimy walls and sticky floors the colour of gunmetal passed the officers by. Magnetically sealed doors led away from them. "109." Sorge touched a call button.
"Hello?" A woman's voice came from the speaker.
"Good evening, madam. Commander Sorge, Imperial Naval Intelligence. I was wondering if your partner is in? We'd like to ask him a few questions."
"What's this about?"
"An article he wrote last month. We'd just like some closure to the matter. There's no charges, I assure you." Sorge crossed his fingers behind his back. His right hand ached.
"No warrant." Barakat pinched the hem of his jacket.
"Won't matter if they let us in," Sorge said out of the corner of his mouth. "Do habs have windows, Innes?"
"Windows…? What are you on about, Richard?"
"Wait here."
"Er, Richard, where are you going?"
"Just a hunch!" Sorge made his way down to the entrance hall and out in to the dusk. Vagrants watched him. One rattled a mug. Sorge threw a single Rako stick in to the vagrants' midst. Skinny bodies tumbled over one another. Bony arms flailed and legs kicked. Sorge re-entered the alley. Feet clanged on an iron fire escape clinging to the side of the hab. Sneaky beggar. Sorge unfastened his holster.
A body dropped from the fire escape. Bin bags exploded beneath it. It scrambled over the stinking rubbish and clambered over the lip and landed in the alley. "Halt!" Sorge whipped his Kondrat out and levelled it. The stocky figure spun and belted away. Shoulder-length hair whipped behind it. "Damn it." Sorge jogged after the figure. His lungs warmed. A needle plunged through his chest. "Stop! Aghh…"
Wheezing, Sorge rounded the end of the alley. The Siluvi, engine running, sat an angle in the road. Ben's door stood open. "Lieutenant?" Sorge raised his wobbling Kondrat. "Lieutenant?"
"Round here, sir!" Ben kneeled on the man's back and gripped him in an armlock.
"God-Emperor, you didn't ram him, did you?" Sorge stuffed his Kondrat away. "I need him alive."
"Sorry, sir. I don't have my new service weapon yet."
"Anyway…" Sorge got down on his knees and pulled out the Chiechen. "You recognise this?" Sorge shoved the headline at the man's nose. "Yeah, you do. You wrote it, Mister Herle. Josef Herle?"
The man spat hair away from his lips. Blood leaked from a cut on his brow. "It's Joe," he growled.
"Why did you run?"
"I don't have to say anything to you, Greycoat."
"Oh, I think you do have something to say to me." Sorge drew his Kondrat.
"Sir!"
"Shuddup, Ben." Sorge pressed the Kondrat's muzzle to the Chiechen. "I'm only gonna ask you once, citizen. Why did you, and only you, print this story?" The Kondrat moved to Joe's cheek. The safety catch clicked.
"What's it matter to you? I'm blacklisted anyway. First my Cadia story, now that. Nobody wants to listen. Truth over ignorance. Lies become fact." Joe squirmed. "I'm a combat correspondent. Cadia opened my eyes to the shitshow way you run the Crotch. I wrote the story as a tribute to ordinary men and women. What's my reward? Struck off the registers and blacklisted. Yeah, I heard about the Lutu murders. Everyone knows. They're just too afraid to speak."
"Sir, can I let him up?"
"Last chance, citizen, or your partner will eat alone tonight. Who informed you about the Grey Lady?"
"Richard!" Barakat, Kondrat raised, ran up. "Richard, let's ease the brakes a bit." Barakat holstered his weapon. "Richard, let him up. Come on, we're attracting attention here."
"Up! UP!" Sorge and Ben hauled Joe up and pushed him over the Siluvi's boot. Their hands patted Joe's sleeves and trouserlegs. "Possession's an offence." Sorge pried a .38 automatic pistol from a shoulder holster Joe wore inside his jacket. "Thanks for keeping it holstered by the way."
"Oh, sure. Shooting at naval officers. That'll make my case better." Joe launched spit on to the Siluvi's body.
"And now you've defaced Imperial Naval property." Sorge unlocked the boot and propelled Joe's head down. "In. In!"
"Come on, friend." Ben gripped Joe's legs and thrust him in to the boot. Sorge plunged the lid down on Joe and flapped his hand.
"Kidnapping now is it, Richard?"
"Exciting, I know." Sorge flopped in the rear passenger seat. He unwound the rag on his hand and examined the split skin on his swollen knuckles.
"Back to the office, sir?"
"Recaf first." A thump came from behind Sorge's seat. "Make it a couple. I want him calm before we go to work." Sorge leaned forwards, the dataslate in his outstretched arm. "Find us a good outlet, Innes. Cheap and discreet."
Barakat wrenched the tablet from Sorge's hand. "Right."
Temper, temper, Innes. A little discreet dirty work here and there won't hurt service records. Sorge arranged himself in the back and smiled. We're in for a long night.